Too Far Gone
by Aingeal de Delgaty
Summary: Post-Reichenbach- day Sherlock comes back. Kind of sad; Rated T for cursing. If I get enough reviews/follows I'll follow it up with a new chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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"Three years to the day." I sigh.

"I'd always told myself you'd be back. That you never really died." I grimace at the thought. I feel like an idiot, believing that he never fell.

I turn away from the grave as a sob tries to claw its way out of my throat. My throat burns and my eyes start to well up. I have to keep blinking to keep these shame filled tears at bay.

Yes. Shame. Shame because... "Because I could have stopped it." A small whimper escapes my lips and my hand flies to my mouth to stifle the sound.

"I-I could have done something." Anger flares up at my own words. I could have done something. I would have done something. I turn back to the headstone. I blink the tears away again and my jaw is set.

"It was on you." I glare at the headstone.

"But you neglected to give me... ANYTHING. Not a word on anything. Nothing."

My phone suddenly buzzes in my pocket, making me jump.

"Fuck." I fumble in my pocket to grab the bloody thing. I pull it out. I don't want to read the bloody text.

"Fucking git. Who the hell is giving me a damn-" I trail off.

The text.

No.

'John.' -SH

No.

My hand drops to my side and I look away.

No... No.

I read the text again.

No.

"Who. The. FUCK. Is. Having. Me. On?" I grit through my teeth.

"FUCKING-" I can't even finish the fucking sentence. I throw the phone as hard as I can, thankfully only scaring a couple of pigeons. My breath is ragged. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself.

"John."

My breathing stops entirely.

"John."

I turn around very slowly to find a tall, unhealthily skinny man with dark curly hair in a long dark coat staring sadly at me. He takes a step forward but I follow his movement by stepping back to keep the distance between us. He sees me step back and stops his advance. His eyes seem to grow even sadder, if that's even possible at this point.

"John, I-"

"No."

I meet his eyes.

"No."

I turn my back to him and hear him step forward.

"Don't follow me."

The ground moves beneath my feet as they form a steady rhythm, padding along. I walk through the cemetery, just trying to put more and more distance between myself and...

I don't care where I'm going.

I'm just...

Too far gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

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I return to Baker Street.  
Never left, actually. I never saw the point in leaving. 's taken care of me and I, her. I couldn't leave her. I couldn't leave the memories Sherlock left behind either.  
I would remember everything about him whenever I walked into the flat from the bullet holes in the wall to the (now clear) kitchen table. But when I climb the stairs to the flat I feel nothing. I only feel shock and betrayal. The afore mentioned memories are now bitter and worthless.  
I continue through the flat, not sure of what to do with myself.  
After maybe two minutes of inane wandering about the flat I subconsciously trudge to my room and collapse on the bed. I barely manage to kick my shoes off before I'm dead asleep, hoping for a better tomorrow.

* * *

My dreams consist of Sherlock falling repeatedly from a random assortment buildings. Blood on the ground. On his face, in his hair...  
Well fuck dreams and fuck sleep.  
It's fucking 2:00am when I wake up, sprawled over the covers of my bed.  
"Nngh." I groan into the pillow after getting a good look at the clock to make sure I hadn't read it wrong.  
I look around my darkened bedroom. The window lets in a bit of light from the street lamp outside, but not enough for me to find a tangible reason for waking up. I suppose it was because of the damn dreams. The dreams hadn't been real. Reality hasn't even been real. I don't understand why that bothers me so much, it just does. Shouldn't I be happy that Sherlock is alive?  
No. (Yes).  
Of course I _should_ be.  
That doesn't mean that I am.  
I stop looking around the room for something that isn't even there and drop my head on the pillow again. Before I can stop myself, or even realise why I'm doing it, a gross sob escapes my throat. Luckily the sound is muffled into the pillow, but just muffling my sobs is not enough to keep the emotions rushing through me. Repulsion, shame, betrayal, longing, and worst of all: hope. Hope that I can let him crawl back into my life like a helpless puppy. And that maybe I can do the same for him. It's disgusting. I mentally kick myself for even thinking about it. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling.  
"Yup," I sigh, "life's a bitch."  
has told me several times that the walls are thin, but really I couldn't care less at the moment. She's asleep by now anyway.  
"Mmgh-" I sit bolt upright in my bed, my heart pounding in my ears as I try to listen. All is deadly quiet. I listen and hear nothing more, but I'm still not convinced that it was nothing. I grab my gun from inside my bedside table and roll my legs off the bed onto the cold floor. I slide off the bed with little to no noise at all and duck down beside the bed. I creep around the room, as quietly as I can, checking every corner, every square inch of the room the noise could have come from.  
But I find nothing. I stand, walk to my bed and put the gun back into its special drawer. I sigh as I lay back down again. It was nothing. Just... Nothing. My heart beat returns to normal as I calm myself. My eyes start to droop with new found exhaustion. My eyes shut and I fall asleep quickly.  
After that, my sleep is undisturbed by dreams and/or noises.  
Not even the sounds of a quick moving thing, or should I say person, chuckling gently in my own room that night.

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**A/N: Quit being such a creeper, Sherlock. Sheesh.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

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SHERLOCK POV:

God, how I've missed this place. Even in the dark I can tell that practically nothing's been moved since the last I was here. I walk around the sitting room, admiring the place. I see the skull sitting untouched on the mantelpiece. I chuckle to myself. John is so sentimental. Couldn't even bring him self to throw it out. Then a thought strikes me.  
"Oh!" I remember again why I came in the first place. I walk out if the sitting room, leaving the skull behind. I climb the stairs to John's room, open the door just an inch and quietly look in. He is sprawled on the covers. He tosses and turns in his bed then is still again. Bad dreams. John is prone to them. I creep into the room, leaving the door open just enough to slip in and out, and walk along the wall opposite the bed. I stop halfway between the window and the door then crouch down and sit on the floor. I want to be able to slip into the shadows if need be, but I also want to have enough light to see.  
"Nngh." John stirs and gives a small groan. I check my watch. 2:02am. John shouldn't be awake yet! John props himself up on one elbow and groggily looks around the room. I slide to the left, away from the window, edging closer to the door. John moves his head, face hidden by the pillow and moans.  
_"Oh no,"_ I think to myself,_ "this is a bit not good..." _I wait patiently for John to fall back asleep. Instead he rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.  
"Yup," he sighs, "life's a bitch."  
Woah. I hadn't expected that.  
"Mmgh," Before I can stop myself I snort at John's random bluntness. I clasp my hands over my mouth to keep from laughing. John sits up quickly in his bed. All is quiet. I don't even breathe, I'm just waiting for him to move. Finally he quietly opens the bedside table. I already know what he's about to pull out before it's even touched. Still crouching, I sidle to the door and quickly slip out without a sound.  
I wait about five minutes, listening to the nearly silent steps John takes as he searches his room. Finally I peek into the room as he falls back onto the bed. His breathing is slow and even. This time I know he's not going to wake. I walk into the room.

I lean back against the far wall and look out the window, letting the sound of John's peaceful breathing calm me.  
I missed John. I truly did. I think about how insane the past three years have been without him. How unbelievably boring and tedious everything was without him there. I'm happy to be back again. Even if John is asleep for the majority of my stay. I chuckle, but this time I don't even try to keep silent. I know he won't wake, and for that, I'm thankful.


	4. Chapter 4

I sit in my armchair opposite Sherlock's just like every morning. I sip my tea and read the paper. Just like every morning. I'm fingering my phone in my pocket. Almost like every morning. I threw my phone in the cemetery; I'd left it there, but I found it sitting on the table this morning and it won't stop buzzing. It does it almost every two minutes ever since I woke up an hour ago.  
'Bzzz.' The sensation against my leg constantly, the noise, it makes me want to throw the damn thing again. I'm assuming they're texts, or it's just busted, but I refuse to check. Unless someone is dying, god forbid, I really just don't give a damn. This whole week has gone to hell, I slept like shit last night, and I have to get to my shift at ten; I would appreciate just a bit of peace!  
'Bzzz.'  
Goddammit! I yank the phone out of my pocket, stand and slam it on the table. In hindsight I should have just turned it off, but in a rage like that all the fucks I could ever give were thrown out the window.  
('Oh no! Where have they gone? I can't find them!'  
'Find what?'  
'Any fucks! I can't find any fucks to give!')  
I storm out of the room, trying to ignore the obnoxious buzzing of my phone. I go to my room to get dressed and when I get back to the sitting room my tea has gone cold and the buzzing has stopped. Curious, but I'm glad. I check the time; 9:30am. I grab my phone, wallet and jacket and leave the flat for .

* * *

The day consists of very uncooperative patients who think they know more than the doctor. _Why_ did it have to be today? Honestly I came fairly close to dropping some f-bombs on some of the patients. Especially an old woman who refused to take any vitamins because what we have tastes different from what she has at home. Not only that but she had to be on a drip because she refused to eat!  
Dear God, why did it have to be today?  
I leave the hospital around 7:00pm and get a cab just as it starts to rain.  
I don't know if the ride was actually quick for once or if my mind was so out of it I didn't notice half of it, but once the cab has pulled to a stop at Baker Street the cabbie snaps his fingers and I come to my senses with a start. I give a small, apologetic smile, hand the money to him sheepishly and climb out of the cab. It's pouring now and I run to the door and clumsily unlock it, falling inside. I drop my shoes, socks and jacket at the door to dry and trudge up the stairs to my room to change to something less dreadful to wear than freezing wet clothing that clings stubbornly to my skin.  
I dig out a pair of grey, cotton pyjama bottoms and throw on a random jumper from the floor over a plain blue shirt. I sigh happily, grab my phone and walk to the living room. I turn on the telly and flip idly through the channels till I find a rerun of Doctor Who on. I leave to the kitchen and put the kettle on then dig something to eat out of the fridge. Left over Chinese from the other night. A bit sad, but it'll have to do. After all, I really just need a cup of tea and sleep, I could care less about what my dinner consists of. Don't eat much anyway. Ella says its due to PTSD. Whatever.  
I leave the tea bag to steep for a few while I eat and try to pay attention to the telly. I place the food on the table and grab my tea. I sit down again to drink my tea when  
'Bzzz.'  
I jump. I'd completely forgotten about my phone since this morning.  
I pick it up and check it.

**31 NEW MESSAGES.**

**MESSAGE 31:**  
I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. -SH


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

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"Fuck," I sigh. Should've seen this one coming, eh? I flip through the remaining 30 messages left this morning.

A lot of them are from Greg and Molly, telling me to get back to them as soon as possible, some from coworkers refusing to page me, a text and two missed calls from Harry, probably a drunk dial, and a few messages from Mycroft. I'm surprised he hasn't tried to kidnap me instead of sending messages that I won't respond to.

I read the messages, delete the calls and try to avoid the texts from Sherlock. Unfortunately curiosity steals over me and I check them.

**8 NEW MESSAGES:**

**FROM:** Sherlock

I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.-SH

I saw you in the street today. You didn't see me. -SH

You do know the jumper actually suits you, don't you? -SH

Oh for God's sake, let's have dinner.

-SH

I like your funny jumper. -SH

JOHN. -SH

Even you have got to eat. Let's have dinner. -SH

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. -SH

That bastard has the nerve to quote Irene Adler to me? Great. Very amusing. I drop my phone into my lap and place my hand across my face, thumb and middle finger to my temples. I roll the tips of my fingers, trying to reduce my headache.

'Bzzz.' I drop my hand down on the arm rest and glare at my phone.

**ONE NEW MESSAGE:**

Lucy! I'm home! -SH

You know what? Fuck you.

'Bzzz.'

**ONE NEW MESSAGE:**

Milk's out. -SH

Milk's out? What is he on about? After moment's hesitation I decide not to ask. I put the phone down and finish my tea with a satisfied sigh.

I place the phone on the table and stand to take my cup to the sink.

'Bzzz.' The phone buzzes on the table right as I step into the doorway of kitchen. I stop and quickly look back, feeling a bit of intrigue.

I mentally kick myself for that one. I shouldn't care.

I don't care.

I turn back around and start into the kitchen with my head down, watching my own feet. I stop after only one step though. The lighting in here is wrong. How is it wrong? Well... Usually, for the past three years, there hasn't been another shadow in here besides mine. I glance up.

.

Oh fuck no.

Sherlock is standing with his back against the sink. His eyes are cast down at his phone, fingers rapidly twitching out, probably, another stupid text.

He finally stops and taps his phone once.

'Bzzz.' The phone buzzes on the table. Sherlock stares at his phone for a moment then slides it in his pocket without looking up. He places his hands behind him on the sink and waits. I watch without a sound.

'Bzzz.' The phone buzzes again to remind me about the latest text. A reminder that this really is fucking Sherlock Holmes standing in the fucking kitchen like he hasn't been dead to me for the past three fucking years.

Sherlock looks up, confused. His expression clears completely when he sees me, but he can't hide. I know the expression, yes, there is indeed an expression there, though he tries to hide it.

It's fear. Straight fear.

"John," he starts, but doesn't continue. I say nothing. For how long? Seconds? Minutes? Years? Doesn't matter, really. I have nothing to say. Nothing at all. No thought crosses my mind and no breath escapes me.

"I know you have a lot of questions," he starts again then stops.

I have no questions.

I have no thought at this point actually.

"... I'm sorry," he whispers just loud enough for me to casts his eyes down. "I'm sorry."

I look down at the cup in my hands as he says it again, his voice wavering on the edge of a sob, "I'm so sorry." I continue to stare at my cup then I hold it at arms length. Sherlock looks back up at me with really sad eyes that I don't give a fuck about. He looks confusedly at the cup in my hand.

"This is you," I say in a hollow voice. No emotion. No thought. No feeling.

I drop the cup and it shatters on the ground, shards sliding all over the floor in a million different pieces. He looks at me in alarm and mild horror.

"Hadn't expected that?" I ask. "Neither did I." I grab the broom and drop it over the pieces. "Pick yourself up," I say, my voice grows weaker, betraying me in every way I hoped it wouldn't. "Because I sure as hell won't do it for you."

I walk out of the kitchen and sombrely climb the stairs to my room. I don't even bother closing the door behind me.

I listen closely to the little clinking sounds the glass makes as he sweeps them together. I like it.

It's better, obviously, than the sounds of people yelling in the street as they try to pick up the pieces of a broken man laying on the curb.

Broken man, broken cup. Either way, my thoughts are long gone, too far for me to will myself to try and fix either of them.

I'm too busy trying, and failing, to pick up myself.

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**A/N: Woah. I really hadn't expected the chapter to turn out like this. Also, sorry for the wait, guys, I had writer's block and technology issues. **


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